


so dawn goes down to day (nothing gold can stay)

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Canon Disabled Character, F/M, Trying to weave different aspects of Jaime's arc and my theories together, Valonqar Prophecy, this is kind of confused and trippy-feeling and most of it I hope is intentional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can sing the same song as long as they like, but that doesn’t make it true. Doesn’t make it a lie, either, does it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	so dawn goes down to day (nothing gold can stay)

_Nature's first green is gold,_

_Her hardest hue to hold._

_Her early leaf's a flower;_

_But only so an hour._

_Then leaf subsides to leaf,_

_So Eden sank to grief,_

_So dawn goes down to day._

_Nothing gold can stay._

\--Robert Frost

* * *

There are dragons in the sky, far above him, and their leathery wings beat the air ferociously, driving the heavy, smoke-laden winds down. Wildfire explodes before him, catapulted into the blazing horizon, last desperate sallies of his sister’s defiance. The breezes tease at his hair, tugging rough curls about his face, spurring sudden tears in his eyes.

_Let her be the queen of ashes._

Jaime could weep for fearful memories, or laugh at the irony. He does not have breath for either, sprinting in heavy chainmail along the battlements, choking on the smoke.

_I’ll give them naught but ashes._

The Rock has never fallen; rock cannot burn. It cannot burn. He remembers Harrenhal, the twisted spires of melted rock, the ghosts of a foolish king and his doomed family. Below the battlements, the cliffs are charred and crumbling.

Only a tourney sword and pink silk for armor, at Harrenhal. A bloody mummery, no songs sung for his poor pure maiden knight. What’s a sword against a dragon? Blinding bright white, gleaming gold plate, tarnished twisted links of mail, it’s all the same, hot metal scalding your skin, burning you without and within.

Burning all around him, his overdue vengeance reaped at last, echoes of the dead come out of the sky to tear him down to earth.

He last dreamed this place, below the earth, an endless empty doom, echoes of the dead reaching out for him. _This is your darkness._ Brienne’s sword had burned, burned bright and cold and clean. Her hands were clean and gentle, warm against his skin, naked in the dark. Clean hands clasped with his. He clenches his fists, phantom and solid, feeling his short-cropped muscles seize. Nothing could hurt him, so long as he was whole.

No, that was wrong. He was seventeen and golden, screams all around him and his body shaking, every one a blow. He could be seventeen or seventy, aching all the way deep down to his bones, but Jaime has never been whole.

We are two halves of the same whole, Cersei told him, time and time again. Reassuring, admonishing, comforting, commanding. We were born together; we’ll die together; we’ll always be together. Time and time again. He repeated her words, to her, to himself. Jewel-bright, confident, treasured as her smiles.

That was wrong too. They can sing the same song as long as they like, but that doesn’t make it true. Doesn’t make it a lie, either, does it?

There are dragons in the sky, far above him, woven out of songs and dreams and nightmares, come horribly true in the dying daylight.

He takes the winding spiral stair, climbing higher and higher, booted feet slipping once on slick blood. She sits by the window, ethereal in the firelight, gazing out over the carnage. The queen of ashes, unmoving and unmoved.

"Cersei."

He speaks for fear that she cannot, that she is iron, or a stone maiden soon to be blackened by the flames. The sound of her name turns her away, turns her back.

“I might have thought you were a sellsword. You look like a sellsword, not a knight.”

Her voice is harsh and hollow, and she still evidently hates the sight of his beard. He rubs along his jawline, scruff scratching at his golden hand.

“Forgive me my appearance, I’ve had other things to worry about.”

“And I’ve not?”

She is thin and drawn, her hair shorter than his, and growing in just as haphazard.

“I wrote to you,” she accuses. “You could have been my champion, but you abandoned me.”

And isn’t that his curse, unable savior that he is?

“I’m here now,” he says. “I came back for you.”

“We’re running out of time.”

Behind her, the sky is tinged a thousand brilliant shades of doom. Red with the dragons’ breath, green with unnatural fire, the laws of the world turned upside down. What have they set loose, this unholy magic, this unjust war, this all-consuming darkness?

This is not his doing. This is not even their doing. This is not his darkness.

He has more than his share of guilt, but they do not deserve this fate.

In his dreams, doom waited below the earth, but now doom is everywhere, and he is lost.

“We’ve lost. Give up the fight.”

Her eyes spark with anger.

“Where were you when I fought? Where were you when our children died? Why did you come back when we were already lost?”

He wants to shout at her until she understands the things she will never understand. His fight was elsewhere, for other causes. For something better than her kingdom and power and glory.

He wants to fall to his knees and apologize for everything that is dead and gone between them.

He wants to reassure her that he, at least, is not yet lost. But that, to her, would be no salvation.

“Without each other, we are nothing. I don’t want to die meaningless.”

_When I die, so must you._

She smiles, then, beautiful and terrible to behold.

“Jaime,” she whispers.

He can barely hear her, over the sibilant hissing, the wild winds outside.But he sees her lips mouth the familiar word.

“I didn’t think it would be you, at the end.”

He might ask what she means, but before he opens his mouth, she’s next to him.

“Save us.”

She pushes her deadly gift into his left hand, her own hands trembling too badly to do their worst.

She embraces him, and her body trembles against him too, as she wraps her arms around his waist and waits.

He runs his free hand through her shorn hair, gold against gold, bringing it down to curl around her neck. She shudders again at the cold of his false fingers. He feels nothing. Nothing but the dagger’s handle slipping along his other fingers, the real ones, the blade piercing silk and skin and sliding clumsily to rest between two ribs. The blood is warm and wet, trickling down his arm.

Cersei gasps, her body jerking. He steadies her against him, catching her before she can fall. The golden hand is hard against her throat, and she gasps again, this time for lack of air. He pulls it away, falling useless at his side. Her own hand probes the wound, touching bloody silk, sliding up to graze his cheek.

“You’re crying,” she says, wondering.

She brushes away his tears, leaving red fingerprints behind.

“Why are you crying? This is how it’s supposed to be. We were born together and we’ll die together. Won’t we, Jaime? Won’t you come with me?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice hollow.

She coughs, and when she leans up to kiss him he tastes blood on her lips. She kisses him, and then pulls away, and her eyes accuse once more.

“You’re ly—”

She coughs again, wildfire eyes dimming. _Your lie_.

“I’ll stay with you,” he says, guiding her down to the floor. “I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

Her hand rises and falls against his face, and he’s not sure whether she means to stroke his cheek or slap him. Her body is limp against his, and he can feel every last beat of her heart.

“I love you,” he says.

He can feel the last beat of her heart.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, lying in his arms.

In the end, he can’t save her, and he won’t doom himself for her. Their song is ending, but he has his own story to write.

Jaime sits with his sister until the flames lick the sides of the tower, and he can hear the dragons screaming.

He struggles to unbuckle his golden hand, letting it fall with a soft, dense clatter onto the stone floor. Clumsily, he tucks it in between Cersei’s hands, her fingers loosely curled and beginning to brittle.

Far below him are the caves, his doom and his salvation, where the stone meets the surf in a thousand passageways. A nameless, handless sellsword could walk out of those passageways, and forge his own path. No one might know him, except those he still wants to know.

The chances are small, but he’ll take them. 


End file.
